H.M.S. Unseen (28 page)

“However, Arnold has political obligations. He wants to find out who the hell they are. And he’s right. I’ll change the orders to my COs. Delete ‘sink on sight.’ Substitute, ‘hunt to exhaustion.’”

At that moment the President’s private line rang and confirmed he would broadcast briefly to the nation at 2100. Giant television-monitoring screens were being erected all through the parkland to the south and southwest of the White House, where there were now an estimated half million people gathered in tribute to the dead Vice President and his staff.

Dick Stafford, the press secretary, was waiting outside the Oval Office, preparing to go over the speech with the Chief Executive. Clearances were being requested for the forthcoming memorial service for Martin Beckman, which would be held in the massive greystone edifice of Washington’s National Cathedral, 3 miles to the northwest of the White House. The great bells of the Cathedral Church of St. Peter and St. Paul would toll for Martin Beckman throughout the night.

The President called his meeting with his advisors to a close, thanked everyone for their efforts, and approved their recommendations. He went on to say he wished he was leaving with them to work on the plan to eliminate, finally, the specter of Commander Adnam.

But that was impossible. As the President phrased it, “Guess I have to stay right here and mind the store.” And as Bob MacPherson added, lingering behind for a few moments, “Minding the store might be a lot better than helping these guys. They’ve got an uphill struggle…and if they fail to catch him, and he hits again, heads are gonna roll.”

Meanwhile the three admirals were all headed in different directions…Morgan to Fort Meade, Mulligan to COMSUBLANT in the Norfolk yards, and Dunsmore to his house along the Potomac. Arnold Morgan would spend the entire evening with Admiral George Morris, watching the satellite reports, praying for a breakthrough, just a sighting of the missing British diesel. They would also watch the Presidential broadcast, and then, sometime after midnight, the national security advisor would call his old sparring partner in the Kremlin, Admiral Vitaly Rankov, chief of the Main Staff, the third most powerful man in the Russian Navy. It was a call to which he was not looking forward.

The evening passed swiftly. Arnold Morgan and George Morris pored over charts, studied photographs, tried to get into the mind of Ben Adnam. Which way would he go? Or was he still lurking five hundred feet below the surface, right above the Atlantic Ridge where SOSUS might not be quite so efficient? Every two hours satellite reports came into Fort Meade. At 2035, shortly before the President’s broadcast, a picture from Big Bird confirmed that Chinese submarine 093 was cruising east through the Shanghai Roads. Neither of the American admirals was surprised.

The Presidential broadcast highlighted the television coverage, which was relaying routine messages of condolence from heads of state all over the world. They were all sympathetic, all complimentary, all despondent about the future of world harmony without Martin Beckman. But none of them contained the pure cry from the soul that was echoed in the words of the President of the United States.

No one would ever forget his unscripted concluding passage.
“I never once briefed Martin on any issue that involved the poor and the underprivileged…there are no words to convey to such a man the depth of the despair of the Third World. He
needed no words, no paper, no files, no parchment, no rules to play by…because his rules were written on his heart…and I don’t quite know what we’ll do without him.”

On the following day
,
no fewer than eight major East Coast city tabloids printed their front page edged in black. The tone of the media, was for once, pure shock, as if none would dare to offend one single citizen, with a smart-ass, tasteless headline. The
New York Times
led the way with two massive lines, straight across the top of page one, which read:

MARTIN BECKMAN, OUR MAN OF PEACE, DIES IN
MYSTERIOUS CRASH OF
AIR FORCE THREE

The
New York Post
stated simply:

DEATH OF THE PRINCE OF PEACE

Almost all of the broadsheets divided the front pages into two stories, one dealing with the actual demise of the aircraft, the evidence, the height, position, and speed, whatever quotes there were. The second, much bigger story, was devoted to Martin Beckman, and how a huge, dangerous shadow hung over the world because of his death.

Arnold Morgan had to wait until 0800(EST) to reach Admiral Vitaly Rankov in Moscow. He made the call from his office on the old secure line into the Kremlin. The Russian officer greeted him in English with polite reserve, concerned, as he always was, that when Morgan called there was trouble, somewhere, for someone.

“Arnold, a nice surprise to hear from you. And how are things at the hub of the world’s last remaining superpower? Not so good today, ha? I am very sorry, Arnold. He was a very special man.”

“Yeah, Vitaly. It’s too bad. Left a big gap here. Everyone liked Martin.”

“But what about the aircraft, Arnold? My God, it was nearly new, wasn’t it? What went wrong?”

“Who knows, old buddy? Damn thing just crashed.” The American was struggling to get out of this drift in the conversation. He wanted only to check on the whereabouts of the two missing Russian submarines. But Rankov was making that awkward.

“But how did it crash? There’s nothing up there to collide with, right? That’s three bad crashes, all unexpected, in the past five or six weeks. All unexplained. What’s going on, Arnold? Is that what you called about?”

The admiral knew he was walking a road that would cause him to level with Vitaly Rankov, and although he did not particularly wish to do so, he was not unduly bothered by the prospect. Rankov was the former head of Soviet Naval Intelligence, and he knew about secrets. Also he might be able to help. The two men had cooperated before.

Nonetheless, Admiral Morgan elected to keep his powder dry. “It was not exactly what I called about, Vitaly. But I would appreciate you marking my card if you could.”

“Very well, Arnold. How can I help?”

“According to our surveillance, there are two Russian submarines we cannot see or hear. I don’t want to know
specifically
where they are or what they’re doing. But I want to ask you to tell me roughly where they are, unless, of course it’s a state secret, and then, of course, I’ll understand.”

“I doubt it, these days. Which two?”

“Northern Fleet Typhoon TK-17. Northern Fleet Delta IV K-18.”

“Wait a minute.”

Admiral Morgan held on the line, drawing little submarines on his writing pad, as he usually did in times of stress. But in less than four minutes the Russian was back.

“The Typhoon’s in the Pacific, way south of the Bering Strait, heading for Petrapavlosk. You’ll probably pick her up there on overheads tomorrow. The Delta IV’s in refit in the Baltic. Covered dry dock in St. Petersburg. That’s why you can’t see her. What else? I am anxious there should be no misunderstanding between us.”

“Not much really. Pretty routine inquiry.”

“Arnold, dear Arnold. On the day after your Vice President is killed in the crash of no less an aircraft than
Air Force Three,
probably the best-maintained passenger jet in the world…you get up at God knows what time to call me to ask about a couple of submarines that are doing no harm to anyone, especially the one that’s in hospital? I have leveled with you, my friend. Now you must level with me; otherwise, a very useful friendship for both of us will begin to lose its foundation.”

“Crafty Russian motherfucker,” murmured Morgan, but not quite softly enough, not on the new crystal-clear international phone lines. He heard at the other end a roar of laughter from the giant ex–Soviet international oarsman.

They both laughed, and Morgan knew he had to say something, although he was not sure precisely what that ought to be.

Admiral Rankov saved him a lot of trouble. “Arnold, you don’t think someone shot those aircraft down, do you? And if the answer’s yes, you couldn’t possibly think it was us, could you?”

“Vitaly, I do think someone shot them down. But I never thought you had anything to do with it. I now know you could not have had anything to do with it.”

“Why? Because the two submarines are now accounted for?”

“Yes.”

“Then you believe the aircraft were shot down by a missile launched from a submarine?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus. Who has such a submarine? Not us.”

“Nor us. But someone has. You haven’t fitted a surface-to-air system on someone else’s boat, have you?”

“If we have, no one’s told me.”

“Well, Vitaly old buddy, the last time there was an almighty calamity, the one involving our aircraft carrier, you’ll recall it all started with a missing submarine of yours.”

“I’m unlikely to forget that.”

“Well, if you have anything in the North Atlantic and it happens to trip over a diesel-electric boat with engine lines from a couple of British Paxmans, do me a favor, will you? Sink the sonofabitch, before it knocks out another airliner.”

“Arnold, is this classified information? I presume you do not wish a word of this to get out?”

“Vitaly. It’s as secret as any secret I have ever confided in you. Don’t let me down, will you?”

“I would not dream of it, my friend. Basically you are telling me that someone stole or hijacked the Royal Navy’s Upholder-Class boat that went missing a year ago? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Correct.”

“And he’s somehow converted it to have an antiaircraft missile, and now he’s out there, causing havoc?”

“Correct. And remember, if they can hire one of yours, they can surely steal one from the Brits.”

Admiral Morgan could not, of course, see it, but there was a broad smile beginning to decorate the Russian’s face. “Arnold, what kind of security do you have on
Air Force Three
? You do, of course, have missile jammers, decoys, and not just some kind of chaff?”

“No, we never went that far.”

“Arnold, I’m surprised. You really want to get that security beefed up. It’s a damned dangerous world out there. As
you
once told
me
, old comrade, stuff happens.”

“All right, Rankov. All right. I’m hearing you. Don’t give me a difficult time. I’ve got enough trouble. But if you should see or hear anything in the area between 20 West and 30 West on the jet flight paths, lemme know, will you?”

“Absolutely. I’ll put our two North Atlantic patrol submarines on alert right away. Just one thing, though, before you go…”

“Uh-huh?”

“Remember…stuff happens.”

012130MAR06. 57.49N, 9.40W. Depth 300. Course 90.
Speed 8.
Unseen
runs quietly east in deep water.

Commander Adnam’s task for his Iranian paymasters was over, the revenge of the Ayatollahs on the Great Satan complete. Three strikes. An eye for an eye. And now the former Israeli commanding officer was alone in his cabin, wondering whether he would find his reward of the final $1.5 million in his bank account. The Iranians had paid the first $1.5 million in three installments, without a murmur. The question was, would they now cut him loose? Or, more likely, have him assassinated and save the cash?
I know what I’d do if I were the head of the Iranian secret service,
he said to himself.
I’d execute Benjamin Adnam forthwith.

He sat with his loaded service revolver on the small table before him, his big desert knife sheathed on the belt beneath his jacket. He was writing a letter to his trusty navigation officer, Arash Rajavi. It read as follows:

He took the letter and sealed it in an envelope, on which he wrote carefully, “To be opened by Lt. Commander A. Rajavi after my departure. Commander B. Adnam.” It would not be long now.

The telephone on his desk rang almost immediately, as he finished. It was the navigator reporting their position, and Commander Adnam ordered the Officer of the Watch to take
Unseen
to periscope depth. He put down the telephone and began to change into the wet suit he’d kept from their swim in Plymouth Sound. Over that he put on extra layers of the cold-weather clothing provided for the bridge watch-keepers in the North Atlantic. The gear rendered him as close to immune from cold, wind, rain, and snow, as made no difference.

The commander placed his sheathed knife-belt around his waist and stored in the zipped pockets of his jacket a large envelope of cash, his revolver, his compass, his handheld GPS link, a small chart, and his paperweight, the one he had used to stun the would-be assassins when he left Iraq. He carried two sealed bags in which were stored civilian clothes and shoes, his passports, papers, a substantial supply of food and mineral water, his binoculars, and a flashlight. Then he pulled on his fur gloves. He had no need of a hat. The jacket had a tight fur-lined hood rolled into the collar. He concluded he could survive for several days in the open, should that become necessary.